One Degree
by caleyforniadreamin
Summary: Most people are connected to one another by six degrees. Lilly, Nick, and Oliver are connected by only one. Malibu's Rehabilitation Center. Find out how they become major parts in each other’s lives. Full summary in my profile. This is legal! MATURE THEME
1. O: Twelve

A/N: There is a reason behind this story

**A/N: There is a reason behind this story. It's that Ellen Hopkins is my inspiration. Yes, I borrowed this idea, but I am making it my own. It's darker than "Snapped," but I hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Nick Jonas, or any of the familiar names in this story. I hardly own the idea…it's borrowed.**

I can almost hear my dear, sweet mother's final words to me as they took me away in an ambulance. Although I couldn't hear her—I was knocked unconscious—I could guess what they were.

"I had expected you to be more mature than this, Oliver." Her voice deep, her man-voice. It often led me to think she was on steroids. Oh, wow…I had never thought of this before, but pills would have been so much _easier_ to do. Why had I actually thought that swinging, for the world to see, from the school's diving board would go unnoticed, until it was too late? How foolish. My mother was probably right. A more mature person than I would have actually thought this through. But, no, I only act on my impulses.

Most people shudder at the thought of death, and some even go as far as to think that those who try to off themselves are just insane. It would explain a lot, if I were only insane. But I know I'm not. I'm Oliver Oken, the boy who just can't stay away from things that are bad for him.

I'm not talking drugs. I'm not talking alcohol. I'm not even talking sex. I'm talking about love. Love with a girl—no, a woman, older than myself. Her name was Juliette. I longed to be her Romeo.

I should have known that it just couldn't be. But I was persistent. I chased after her. She always seemed to be so far ahead of me. Until one day, I got her to stop dead in her tracks, so I could pounce. She was walking by my house, not noticing anything, not a care in the world. That was one of the things that attracted me to her; she was so carefree. I stopped her with four simple words.

"I think you're beautiful."

She stopped, as though she was imagining it. As she turned slowly to me, a smirk found it's way onto my face. Yes, the classic "Oken" smirk. Every Oken boy had it, and used it to their utmost advantage.

I'll admit, at first she was incredibly wary. Once I had convinced her that what I had told her was true, she seemed to just get more stressed. I'm only a boy; I wasn't sure exactly how to calm her down. So I sat and waited, watching as she fought her inner demons. Twisted as it may seem, seeing her swing from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds was highly amusing. I was always a straightforward boy. Always knew what I wanted when I wanted it, and how to get it.

Therefore it came to no surprise to me that she gave in. And there I found myself, in a relationship with a twenty-eight year old woman. I was only sixteen. Twelve years seems like a big number, doesn't it?

Well, a year goes by fast, doesn't it? And a year is only a simpler way to say twelve months. In my mind, there was no numbers to limit our love. There wasn't anything except deep, carefree love pulsing through my veins. For once in my whole life, I had felt no need to do _anything_ except cater to my Juliette. Everyday, my love for her grew stronger. It grew thicker in my veins, red hot.

Unfortunately, the love in her veins quickly grew cold. It went unnoticed by me for the longest time. I curse myself for not seeing the signs. The way she no longer held me, the way her glances were full of sorrow and regret, the way her kisses—meant for my lips—only hit my cheek, like I was a child.

Well, they do say love is blind. So, if Juliette wasn't in love, then why did my undying affection for her just slip past? It should have been obvious.

The day it all ended is still etched into my mind. Juliette called me, secretly, and invited me over. I, obviously, got excited and happy, and immediately stepped onto Cloud Nine. I showered, dressed, and hurried over to her apartment, like her house was on fire and I had to save her.

I was expecting candles lit, sweets waiting on the coffee table, dimmed lights, and even some wine. Oh, sure, it was a little farfetched…but I can tell you aren't quite swallowing my tale to well, are you? My tale in itself is crazy, so what's a little more?

Instead of my expectations, I found a pale Juliette, covered in a plaid blanket, sitting on her couch. She invited me in, and I sat at the other end of the couch, waiting for her to say something. Call me crazy (and I know you are), but I thought something was wrong—that was complete and utter sarcasm. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it pulsating from her body, mingled with the heat the thick blanket spread.

"This has to end, Oliver."

Her voice was fragile and soft, like always. It wasn't weak; it was just…soft. Like an angel's. I was utterly confused at first. Hadn't she loved me like I loved her? This had to be some sort of joke. Something horrible in the back of my mind told me it wasn't. She was all too serious, and that was when I first started to break.

I shakily asked her why. Her response was cold.

"_Why_? God, Oliver, are you retarded? Can't you see how different we are? You're just a boy, and I'm a woman. A woman who doesn't _need_ you anymore."

At those words, my stomach plummeted. How could someone so sweet have such a huge bitch lying under the deceiving exterior? I shook slightly in my seat, unable to digest what she was suggesting. I had to leave her. She was kicking me out of her life.

"Get out now, Oliver."

And she was kicking me out of her home. The first step outside her wooden door would close me off from her forever. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't need the cops called on me. My mother is a cop…I hate to think what she would say if she knew exactly why I was in this place.

Malibu's Rehabilitation Center. Yep, rehab. For the alcoholics, the druggies, the basket cases alike. Only these were teenagers. A wacko shack for teens. How civilized.

After I tried to kill myself, I spent about six weeks in a neck brace. The doctors told me the ring around my neck would never go away. So I'd wear it like a medal.

Then my mom brought me here. She told me, harshly, that she couldn't deal with such immaturity right now, and that she wanted me to get better.

Mother, there is a huge hole in my heart where Juliette used to be. Tell me, is that supposed to get better anytime soon, if at all?

No matter what I said—"I'm fine." "You're overreacting." "Hey, I'm still disgracing the Earth, aren't I? Why torture me more?"—I was stuck here. For a year. Until I "got better."

There was a counselor in this place, her name Mrs. Amber Williams. I met her briefly on my brisk tour of the place. She was pretty—but I wasn't going down that path again. And she looked easy to communicate with—but that didn't mean I was going to give in easily.

I was left in a room, plain and painted yellow, with a note in one hand, and a small painkiller in the other. Downing the painkiller, I read the note.

It just told me the basic guidelines of the place. I had to go to school (oh, joy), there were mandatory church services on Sunday (another place where I wouldn't belong), and that there were levels I'd have to get to in order to show my progress. I was currently at Level Zero, the lowest of the low.

The levels were their own little cliques. Levels had to stick together, and not co-mingle with other levels. If it was a real rule, or just an unspoken one, didn't matter to me. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here so…I couldn't even think of a true reason. I was here because my mother wanted me to be. I was here because suicide is looked down upon in our society today, for absolutely no reason. A kid wants to get out of his miserable life. Why punish him for failing?

I thought back to the day when it was supposed to go down.

It was a week after Juliette severed all ties with me. I had been feeling low ever since then, but today I was a downright wreck. Looking at the calendar—August twentieth—I realized with a jolt that it would have been our six-month anniversary.

I was almost immediately consumed by depression. Juliette was my life. If she was gone, there was absolutely no reason to live. That thought in mind, I walked into the attic. My attic had absolutely everything crammed in it, and was overflowing with what I needed most—rope. I grabbed one with a sizeable length, and then wondered where to do it. I couldn't do it at home; my father was here, albeit completely hammered. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

_School_.

It was eight o'clock at night. Nobody would even be there, and I knew a quick way to sneak inside. The trek to my school was short, only three blocks. I slipped inside quietly and made my way to the pool.

What I had in mind was that, if the hanging didn't work, I could always drown. I carefully made a noose and tied the other end securely from a beam on the diving board. Walking to the end, I said one last thing before I stepped over.

"This is where you left me, Juliette."

I lost consciousness almost instantly. The constriction of my airways was frightening, but I only had seconds to think about it before I slipped into blackness.

When I awoke, my neck felt numb, and I was blinded by white.

_Am I in Heaven?_ I asked myself naïvely. I was soon corrected by a screech.

"He's up! _He's up!_" my older sister's voice cut through my eardrums. My father rushed to my side.

"Oliver," he breathed. "I'm so glad you made it."

Then he started crying. Let me set you straight, my father _doesn't_ cry. Both of my parents were hardasses. But there he was, with tears in his eyes.

Later I found out that my mother was the one who found me. I couldn't believe I had forgotten; my mom patrols the school at night, making sure no shenanigans went down. I tried to ignore her absence from the hospital room, as though I didn't care. I didn't, really, but I hated the anticipation I felt, wondering what her words would be when she saw me. I had a gut feeling that they would be harsh.

"This isn't what I expected from you, Oliver. You seemed like such an intelligent boy. That's a pretty good mask you're wearing."

I had been dead-on. And now, here I was, a place I would call home for the next year.

A year. Twelve months. Twelve years. Juliette.

Will the irony ever end?

A/N: Okay, first chapter, done. I was a little wary about actually doing this story, but I hope you like it. The point of view will change with each chapter. What should the pairing be? Loliver or Nilly?

**Did you like this chapter?**

**Should I continue?**

**Tell me, in a review.**

**-Caley.**

**P.S. It's my birthday! :)**


	2. N: Prison

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

I hate this room. I hate feeling of being compressed inside four yellow walls. Yellow…the happy color. Like we're actually supposed to be happy that we're here. What kind of logic is that?

I don't want to be here. But, it's not my choice. Pointing the barrel of a gun to your chest and pulling the trigger pretty much secures you a spot in this place. If you survive.

Unfortunately, I did. See, when I pulled the trigger the force yanked my arm to a completely different angle. I would have probably bled out if it wasn't for Frankie. Little guy found me on my bedroom floor. He was looking for a toy of his. I was fading out of consciousness when I heard him scream.

My heart panged. I don't feel guilty about trying to kill myself. I feel guilty because my little brother found me. Nobody was supposed to find me, really…until there was nothing that could be done.

I know the question going through everyone's mind: Why would Nick Jonas want to kill himself? It wasn't that hard of an answer to figure out. Why does any one person want to end their life? My reason is no different than any others. Why would it be, because I'm famous?

And there is one of the reasons why. Being famous…it sounds like such fun, but in reality, it's just stress. I guess this whole thing can just chalk up to being stressed. As the youngest member of the Jonas Brothers, I have a lot to do for someone my age.

My schedule is hectic. Concerts, signings, meet and greets, radio shows, talk shows…it's no wonder why I fall asleep the minute I hit the bed at night. Even if that's so, I never seem to get enough sleep. I'm always tired. And, note, that's just my life as Nick Jonas, the rockstar.

As Nick Jonas, the kid, I have stuff such as school, brothers, family, girls, and friends to deal with. Each list is a handful, now combine those together, and I hardly have time to breathe.

And let's not forget my wonderful diabetes I have to monitor. A typical kid's head would explode. I have to make it seem like I can handle all of this. That façade adds even more stress. I have to constantly be watching my back, making sure I make life look easy. That's all my life has been, though, since I was a little kid. All of this stress from all of this work, just piling on. Instead of my head exploding, I was going to make my heart do it instead.

I was in the hospital for a few weeks. When I got out, my parents—teary-eyed and sniffling—dropped the news: My new home, for the next _year_, would be Malibu's Rehabilitation Center. I had a minor lapse of sanity and asked why.

"Nicholas, you just need to get all of whatever is in your head worked out," my mother sniffed.

"Don't forget to pray and ask the Lord for strength," my dad added.

"As well as forgiveness for trying to kill myself?" I asked bitterly.

"There's nothing to forgive, Nicholas," my mom said. "It wasn't you…it was…well, whatever it was."

Stress, mom. It wasn't any specific person, it was a whole invisible force just pressing itself on the top of my head, or maybe the trigger of a gun. I sighed, nodded, and returned onto my bed. My parents got me some suitcases, and I had spent the rest of the day packing my clothes into them. Joe and Kevin both offered to help, but I told them it was fine.

In actuality, I didn't want to be alone with them. I couldn't face talking to my brothers. My older brothers, who I looked up to. With a jolt, I realized that I was one of those brothers to Frankie.

The day I left I took my time giving each of my brothers individual goodbyes.

"Keep up the concerts and everything, guys," I said. "Don't let our fans fall through the cracks."

"But who's gonna do the Nick J-Lo voice?" Joe asked. "Not one of us can hit those notes."

"Improvise," I said. "Just…y'know…rock."

I gave them each a very long hug. By the time I walked out the door, Kevin and Joe were crying quite noticeably. Frankie looked absolutely inconsolable.

So now, sitting here in my yellow prison, I start to feel sick. I was a role model to my baby brother. My baby brother, who found me lying on my bedroom floor, bleeding profusely…gun only a foot away from me. What kind of image was I showing him? That when life gets tough, you have to end it? I never follow by what I say—I guess it makes me a hypocrite—but I want my little brother to live a good life. Even if I, myself, could not.

My mind reeled to the day I left. While Kevin and Joe were hugging me and crying, Frankie was on one of the smaller couches, clutching a stuffed toy. He was crying harder than anyone. His face was red and blotchy, and his face was soaked with tears, yet he still managed to look innocent and uncorrupt. I remember turning to him…the last person to get a goodbye, just so it could be the longest. I sat on the couch and he quickly scrambled on to my lap. I held on to him as he soaked my shirt, and my own eyes filled with tears as well.

"Y-you're coming back, r-r-right, Nicky?" he had said.

"Of course, Frank," I said. "When I'm gone, you gotta be the cool one around here."

"HEY!" Joe said through his tears. Everyone laughed.

Then I left. I'd only been in this place for about a week, but I already missed my family terribly. I regretted attempting suicide. In all honesty, I wish I had succeeded. I doubt you feel anything if you're dead. And if I was in Heaven, I could at least watch over them. Because I failed, I was now stuck without my family.

My family meant the world to me. I didn't care of anything or anyone I had, just as long as my family was there. They were my top priority. I had continually tried to make them happy. Which, you guessed it, added on to stress.

I guess I had just snapped under pressure. I know every teen has pressure, but like I said, I had double of it. I not only had friends and family to impress, I had millions of fans as well.

Here, there was no stress. There was just strict monotony. I got up everyday, seven sharp. Shower, dressed, breakfast. School, nine to three. Rooms until five. Dinner. Recreation. Bed. The same routine.

Except for weekends. Weekends was just…whatever. But anywhere you went, you were watched, like a hawk.

I felt like I was in a prison. A prison I couldn't escape for a year.

**A/N: Nick's take…enjoyed it? Tell me in a review. Oh, and "Snapped" will be updated soon, don't worry. :)**


	3. L: Straightjacket

Disclaimer: I don't own anything

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything. :

The shrill ring of my phone yanked me from my deep, somewhat peaceful sleep. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed the offending object to shut off the alarm.

"Lilly, are you awake?" my mom hollered from downstairs.

"Yeah, mom," I called back. I reluctantly dragged my lazy butt out of bed.

Another day. Nothing had changed since the previous. I knew what this day would consist of already, and it was only six AM. Lazily, I grabbed a pair of socks and jeans, and then a long sleeved shirt I had borrowed from Miley. I put on the socks and jeans without much effort, but when it came to put on the shirt, I paused like I always do.

My arms were pale—like the rest of me. But they weren't only pale. They had a lot of closed-up, bright red lines running across them. These lines could be anything, really…marks from a marker, maybe, or paint from a wet bench. But they weren't, they were the scars from my blade.

It's definitely hard to think about. I remember how I used to think about cutting. It scared and confused me. Why would anyone want to tear their skin open, and bleed? Even when I got hurt from skateboarding, the sight of blood had grossed me out.

I have a better understanding of it now. Most people won't understand it, but they don't really need to. As long as I've got it, that's all that matters to me.

I don't cut because I _like_ the feeling…it hurts a lot. The pain always varies. Sometimes it's just a tiny sting, and other times I'm convulsing on the floor from the pain. There really isn't any medium, and I can never tell when it will hurt more or less—I just know it will hurt, and I take the risk.

Next, it's not because it makes people feel bad for you. I hate it when people do that. When the littlest thing goes wrong, they grab a needle or something minimally, equally pointy like that and just scratch themselves. Now, come on…seriously? Typically, their lives aren't even that bad. Like I mentioned, it's usually when something doesn't go their way. Then, they go and tell all of their friends. I don't feel any remorse for those people, unlike their friends—in fact, I'll stand up and call them an attention whore. It's not like I'm afraid about how they'll take it. Nobody's opinion really matters to me, because I already think low of myself. Oh, and this is just to inform you—I haven't told anyone about my cutting…so, no, I'm not a hypocrite.

I cut because it's, more or less, an outlet. I know some people somewhere are thinking, "So buy yourself a damn diary." I had already thought about it. But here's the thing…when you get a diary, you have to sort out your thoughts. You have to really sit down and think about it, and it's typically worse for you. I know from experience that the more you dwell on something, the worse it becomes. Then, I learned that when you open yourself up—and I mean literally, open yourself up—it's easier to release what you feel. With each squeeze of my heart, a wave of crimson trickles down to my awaiting palm, empty and longing for something to fulfill it. And with the sea, my problems come to shore, leaving behind only those things that will disappear after time—never to return back, never to reach the horizon.

The second problem with a diary…people can find it and open up to your world. All of your tightly kept secrets suddenly shined on by the light of prying eyes. When you have lines on your skin, instead of lines on paper, it's so much easier to conceal. It might require constantly checking that your sleeves cover your palms, but it's not too much work. Whereas with a diary, no matter how hard you try to hide it, someone finds it. Whether it's your best friend or your annoying, seven-year-old cousin; it's almost guaranteed. I already have a bunch of long-sleeved shirts and a razor blade—why blow money on something so dysfunctional?

Then, finally, there was the whole thing about flashbacks. You write something in a diary, and it's there. You've made your mark; innocent and untouched white now tainted with black and blue. When you grow older, and find the book in the corner underneath your bed, you'll undoubtedly take a stroll down Memory Lane. That's like opening up the wound again, when you read over your misery. Physical marks begin to fade after a while. They're, of course, still going to be there, but they all look the same. I know I'm not going to be able to look at the mark and be able to recall the exact reason I made it.

"LILLIAN!" my mother's voice broke my thoughts. I frantically pulled the shirt over my head and ran a brush through my hair. Running down the steps, I prayed that I hadn't infuriated my mommy dearest too badly.

"Sorry, mom, I was just thinking," I said as I entered the kitchen.

"Well, thank God for that," she said. "It's nice to know your brain is still functioning. You don't have time to eat breakfast, though. Grab a dollar and buy yourself a granola bar or an apple from the school. You hear me, Lillian? No junk…you're already getting rather pudgy."

"They're called curves, mom," I said bitterly.

"That's what society wants you to think, now come on," my mom said, grabbing the keys. I rolled my eyes, but followed her to the car.

The ride to school was nothing out of the ordinary. My mother criticized me for practically everything she could think of—even things I had nothing to do with. Crazy, right? Well, that's my mother for you. A crazy, uptight, obsessive compulsive tyrant.

As soon as we arrived to the school, I jumped out of the car. My mother shouted a reminder ("Remember, Lillian, NO JUNK. You need to watch your weight!") to which I cut her off mid-sentence with the slam of the door. She drove away as I stormed into the school. I groaned a little when I saw that Nate hadn't left his locker yet.

Nate Travis was probably the most arrogant, insufferable boys in the school. This, of course, meant that I had one of the biggest crushes on him. I'm not even sure why. We were from two different worlds, complete opposite sides of the spectrum. Where he excelled, I lacked, and vice versa.

He was the captain of the soccer team, and in a bunch of clubs. I did as little to do with school as possible. He was gorgeous in any aspect. Ask my mother: I was chubby, short, and completely blind when it came to anything to do with style. Nate was popular…I wasn't. We were complete opposites, but I'll tell you right now that it isn't one of those, "opposites attract," kind of things. It just would never work out between him and I.

I tried fighting my way through the crowd of his admirers, his several girlfriends (yeah…I know), and his jock friends, only to get nowhere. I let out a frustrated noise, attracting the attention of everyone there.

"Hey, Lilly, babe!" Nate said obnoxiously. Ugh, why must I like him?

"Hi," I said shortly. "Look, can you and your mob just disappear?"

Nate gave me a shocked look and just motioned the crowd away, finally allowing me to get to my locker and grab my stuff. I shut my locker, turned, and then promptly screamed when I saw a Cheshire Cat-esque grin coming from Miley's face.

"Don't do that!" I shrieked. "You're going to kill me."

"Sorry, sorry," Miley said, still grinning.

"Why are you so happy?" I asked grudgingly.

"That's just me, I'm Smiley Miley!" she giggled.

"You put too much sugar in your cereal," I concluded. Miley snorted and nodded. "You _have got_ to stop that."

The school day went by as usual. I had the same classes I had everyday. Nothing at all broke the monotony. I guess you can say I felt comforted because nothing was changing, but it just bore me.

I was at the lockers at the end of the day, trying to hurry before Nate and his whole mob showed up, when Miley walked up to me.

"Do you want to sleepover tonight?" she asked. "It'll be fun."

"Sure," I said, smiling at her. "I'll be at your house around seven."

"Sounds good, see you then!" Miley said, giving me a hug.

-x-

As said, I was at Miley's at seven. I always felt so at home at her house, even though I didn't live with her. It was just the mood that Robby Ray, Jackson, and Miley set. They always made me feel like I belonged, when it's apparent that I don't. Right now, Miley and I were sitting on her bed, facing each other, talking.

"OH!" Miley said. "You'll never guess who asked me out today." The smile on her face was enormous. As well of a friend Miley was to me, she never really told me about her crushes. All the best, though, because it was the same deal with me. However, we **always** told each other when one of us—practically always Miley—got asked out.

"No, I'm guessing I won't, because I didn't even know you liked someone," I said, smiling. Miley gave me a sheepish smile, but giggled.

"Nate Travis," she squealed. "You know, the mega gorgeous guy who's locker is right next to yours? Yeah, he asked me out in Chemistry today."

My heart began to sink. I knew liking Nate was pointless, but still. The fact that he liked my best friend was a complete blow to my heart.

"Did you say yes?" I asked, attempting happiness. Miley bit her lip, trying to conceal a wide smile, but failed.

"Yeeeeeah!" she shrieked. "I'm so happy! I didn't even think he liked me! It's funny how stuff like this works out." She lay on her pillows and hugged herself. I smiled at her—a forced one, as you can imagine.

It definitely is funny how stuff like this works out. You like someone, even though you shouldn't, but of course he goes for someone that's the complete opposite of you. Your best friend, of all people. You can hate the random cheerleader that you know he has a crush on, but you can't hate your best friend, no matter how much it hurts, and how much that hurt wants to come out in anger and hatred. I was strongly tempted to cry, but I knew I couldn't in front of Miley. I bit my lip and looked toward my bag of stuff, knowing what lay between my rolled up socks.

Temptation exceeded my will to feign happiness for Miley, so I pushed myself off of her bed, and reached into my bag. Grabbing the socks, my thoughts turned to how there were only two layers between me and my escape.

"I'll be right back, Miles," I said. "I gotta pee."

"And you're bringing socks with you?" Miley asked.

"They comfort me, woman!" I shouted over my shoulder as I entered the bathroom. I practically tore my socks apart; my need for what lie beneath too strong to overcome. I pulled out the razor, and instantly my heart beat began to steady. I drew back my sleeve, and stared at the familiar red lines, one more about to be sketched with the familiar blade.

I dragged the razor neatly across my skin, applying just enough pressure to break it and draw crimson.

_This is for imperfection._

I stared at the blood ebbing from my arm, with it, my problems. But one was definitely not enough to satisfy me.

_This is because I'm not Miley._

_This is because I like someone who is clearly not for me._

_This is for being stupid, ugly, and a disappointment._

Four wounds, pouring feelings, releasing closed-in emotions. These little marks weren't enough for me, anymore. They used to suffice, but right now, I needed more. I knew that the reason for this thought wasn't because Miley was dating Nate. I've had my heart broken plenty of times. Maybe it was just the sore spot of my breaking point. I'm never as good as Miley.

I know my mother wishes Miley was her own daughter. She compares me to her all of the time. "Why can't you wear makeup like Miley? Must you wear those wretched Converses; why not wear heels like Miley? You should really wear clothes that _flatter_ your figure, chunky as it is, like Miley…"

Well, as shocking as it may seem, mother, I am not Miley. Miley had it all. She was pretty, smart, had great clothes, and now, an amazingly gorgeous, perfect boyfriend. They were a perfect match, conjoined pieces of a fantasy puzzle.

I was the piece that had a bent edge, and was thrown away, so that the picture was never complete, but the piece that was missing honestly didn't matter much.

As time grew on, my thoughts grew more and more depressing. And I must have been digging the blade deeper in to my skin, because suddenly, I gasped from pain. I looked down and saw blood pooling around the blade and down my arm. At first, my thoughts were to quickly remove the blade and get help, but my mind was clouded over with depressing thoughts.

So, instead of pulling away, I did the opposite, and pushed harder. I refrained from screaming, but the pain was beginning to get unbearable. I fell onto the floor, and I heard Miley knocking on the door.

"Lils?" she called. "Yer taking an awfully long time! Are you okay? Lilly…?" I heard her turn the knob, and pushed even harder. I had to end it before she came in.

I was slipping into the darkness when I heard my best friend for the last time, screaming.

-x-

I jolted straight up, breathing heavily. That was the fourth night in a row I had that dream. Was it even a dream, or something more of a nightmare?

It was neither. In actuality, it was my past. That was the last time I had seen Miley. According to Jackson (who often came to visit—I was his "other sister"), she absolutely refused to use her own bathroom. Miley would have visited me, but she was forced to fly to Nashville to see her cousins. She had sent me a box full of letters, candy, and returned my lucky bracelet, which now had a tiny guitar charm on it.

The bracelet was on my wrist; the one that I had practically severed off. The entire arm was bandaged tightly, as if they were fearful that it would fall off completely. And who, you're probably asking, might "they" be? The people here, at Malibu's Rehabilitation Center.

My mother sent me here, tearful—but she was always an astounding actress. I was supposed to stay here for a year. I knew it would probably drive me insane, but the surveillance here was as tight as my bandage, so I wouldn't be able to try anything.

Instead of finding escape, I found a straightjacket.

**Sorry for lying about the updating. I am a horrible person. Hahaha.**

**But, I need advice; more decisions, wooh!**

**Nilly or Loliver?**

**And: how should I do the chapters? One for every month, rotating narrators? Or an indecisive amount of chapters leading through the year, rotating narrators?**

**Thanks!**

**-Caley.**


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